The Day Canada Cracked
by GaolerWench
Summary: All is well and strange in the third volume of Technology in the Modern World. Canada has a little too much beer, and decides that he has had enough of America's idiotic ways. Russia has absolutely no idea what is going on...


_Mon chèr ami_,

This has been the strangest week of my life. First, _l'Amerique_ was usual idiotic self, practically giving himself and his country away to Russia.

He's a creepy one, though there is a certain charm to him… No, I mustn't think that way. For all I know, he could be reading this over my shoulder right this instance!

_C'est horrible. _

Then,_ l'Angleterre _got himself addicted to that monstrosity of a game, Skyrim. I was just in time to save him, though! Why I did, I'll never know…

He did not take too kindly to me sampling his game. He shouldn't be offended, though; the game was not good. It was like a fine cheese: wonderful, and then the mold advances.

To continue the tale of the most extreme strangeness that has permeated this week, _mon chèr_ Matthieu decided to suddenly become visible.

Why now? Why, during the week when insanity abounds, must the _only sane person_ (nation, really) succumb?

He and I were having a perfectly cordial conversation (in French, so as to prevent any eavesdroppers; this was at Matthieu's demand, as I have no reservations concerning his love life) when his idiot of a brother decided to interrupt, waving his horribly clothed body back and forth in a way that was decidedly _not_ appealing.

And _l'Angleterre_ says that I flirt with anything on two legs. Truly, I would make love to a panda before I kissed that imbecilic American.

I hope China never reads this.

Matthieu muttered a dark curse, swiveling to face his younger brother.

"Hey, broski! Whaddaya say ya give me a lift to the Mickey D's?"

Canada's irritated visage faltered for a moment, quite ready to acquiesce. But something happened. It may have been caused by a reminder of someone else's, or just a rebellious desire, but Matthew said,

"No."

America looked as if he had been struck. "B-but, Mattie, I wanna go to McDonalds!" he wailed.

"I said no." Matthieu replied flatly.

Finally, _mon fils_ grew a backbone!

In retrospect, I have concluded that his sudden bravery was caused by his constant proximity to Prussia.

I raised him to have better taste.

"What happened to you, bro?" America asked frantically. "Do you have a fever?"

He became a blur of motion, searching Canada's forehead for a fever, while simultaneously calling 911.

I believe he doesn't know that we are in Europe, and therefore 911 is not the correct number to dial. Such an idiot. And not even an attractive one.

Poor Matthew sat, practically boiling in his seat; you would think that he was an angry, roiling storm cloud about to dispel a bolt of lightning.

And dispel lightning he did. He stood, giving only a moment's pause to utter a warning ("Alfred, stop!"), but when the younger paid no heed, the dull thud of skin on skin rang throughout the room.

America reeled, surprised enough not to roll with the deceptively powerful punch. Matthieu stood, cradling his hand; I imagine that slamming one's hand into that _oaf's_ face would give anyone broken/bruised/irrevocably damaged knuckles.

Canada was seething with pent-up rage. "For two-hundred and thirty-five years, I have tolerated you. I drove you wherever you wanted, paid for your meals when you _forget,_" Here his voice burned with sarcasm, "and took care of you when you got so totally smashed that you couldn't drive!"

"That's only happened, like—" America whined, only to be interrupted by his brother.

"—Forty-seven times." Canada deadpanned. "And I'm sick of it. Papa is the only one who notices me without provocation."

Oh, so I _am_ appreciated.

"What does provocation mean…?" America mumbled. Ignoring him like the fool he is, Matthieu continued.

"You never notice me. You're my brother, Al!" Matthieu spat, anguished.

America hemmed and hawed, trying to find words for the delicate situation. Predictably, he said something totally worthless.

"B-but, broski,I thought the reason you haul me around is that you love me!" He finally wailed.

"I don't love you," Matthieu was obviously lying. To the one who had raised him, it was quite obvious, "I was only nice to you in an effort to keep relations good."

"You're my brother, you have to love me!" America shouted, determination shining on his face.

"I'm not your brother, you're my damn throne!" Canada roared, suddenly so unlike himself that I cringed.

"Amerika, perhaps it would be best if we left…" I was the epitome of relief when Russia intervened.

"No!" he shouted angrily. "I'll be the hero like I always am! You can't stop me!"

At this point, foolishly, I decided to say something in the hopes of putting the spat to rest. "This is very... what is the English word? Hot, non?"

The two North American countries blanched. "Papa, stop! I was feeling so empowered… I felt like the king of the world!" My dear Matthieu cried.

I gave a knowing smirk. "Gilly gave you beer again, didn't he? You always seem to be so angry when you're… smashed."

He shook his head violently. "…How would you know if he had, though?" He queried hesitantly, contradicting his original denial.

How I adore _mon fils_.

"Do you remember that day, _euh_, about sixty years ago, at the end of the second World War?" I drawled.

Matthieu flushed a deep maroon, bowing his head in shame while America looked on in confusion. Only Russia was content with being outside of the conversation, smiling childishly and watching America with unnerving intensity.

"Wait, but what happened to the argument?" America whined. "We were going strong, man; was that the first argument that we've ever had? And by the way, I'm not your _damn throne_," he mocked, "you're my _freakin' underwear_!"

Canada, still too embarrassed to speak, slammed his head into his knees as a new wave of chagrin hit him.

"Papa… I'm going home now…" He whimpered.

I sent a burning glare at the American, garnering a cry of "What did I do?", gathered up my things, and left.

See the beginning of this entry.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Well, the third one's up. Writing France is really hard; trying to make him the perfect balance of England, Canada, and Prussia is nearly impossible.<strong>

**_Translations:_**

**_Mon chèr- My dear (masculine)_**

**_Mon chèr ami- My dear friend (masculine)_**

**_Mon fils- My son_**

**_Non- No_**

**_l'Angleterre- England_**

**_l'Amerique- America_**

**_Matthieu is the French equivalent of Matthew._**


End file.
